Humans. Born to communicate.
From infancy to death. Being here to speak.
But to whom?
Who can listen to words coming from the mist of irrational deeds?
We all speak. We all listen.
And yet we keep on. Still trying to find out.
In a cosmos born in silence, who is supposed to listen?
In a cosmos full of words. Who is supposed to speak?
This poetry collection holds the poems submitted for the 3rd Poetic Philosophy Gathering.
2026 3rd POETIC PHILOSOPHY GATHERING
Date: Saturday, May 2, 2026
Time: 18:00–19:00 Greece time
Location: Online (Google Meet)
Link: Google Meet https://meet.google.com/vhp-ccub-gqy
Facebook link: https://fb.me/e/d04zM9U6J
Submit your poems with comment here, or via the Poetic Philosophy Contact Us page! You can also send an email to harmonia-philosophica@hotmail.com.
Branches shift the night.
A hug of leaves seas the day.
Someone, alone, between doors
opens the time.
His time clocks between
his footsteps. Steps
in the space between. Along he walks.
Between earths he rides.
Arisen are the arrows.
Death upon the sorrow.
Death upon the cry. What is it left?
Time in one only point.
~ Athina Styliani Michou
The object
on the stairs
had been there forever
no one moved it
it had become
part of the
furniture
part of the stairs
I picked it up
a dust ring
had gathered around
where it sat
and the carpeted stairs
looked lighter
where the object
had been
it was warm
from sunlight
holding onto heat
like old things do
silent and steady
as we walked by
we never spoke of it
this object
though we stepped past it
daily
it had presence
an invisible presence
midway on the stairs
I turned it
in my hand
something once useful
now orphaned
by context
and yet still
claiming space
it smelled faintly
of time
and old conversations
I didn’t know
what to do
now that it was gone
from its spot
I held its weight
and for a moment
the stairs felt
too open
too empty
too bare
I placed it back
exactly
where it had been
let the dust ring
resume
like nothing had changed
~ Tim Boardman
My name is Nobody.
I am indebted to my father for living, but—
I can’t imagine my heart breathing in light without you,
Mosella.
God has no religion,
A world of dew, but even so
Our life is what our thoughts make it.
In Luke 23:28, Jesus says “Do not weep for me.”
Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere,
Fortune favors the bold.
If
Dreams,
In and out of one another streets of life,
Howl
On this land
My last goodbye,
Do not stand at my grave and weep
The chaos.
When we two parted
Arms, and the man I sing, who, forc’d by fate
To be in love,
Because I could not stop for death.
Still I rise,
Too aware of the lives that make me whole—my inner world,
I carry your heart with me:
Unending love,
Song of myself,
The more loving one.
At the rainbow’s end even the caterpillar gets its wings
When in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes!
~ Ernesto P. Santiago
Note: The poem credits: 1. Odysseus in Homer’s epic poem, The Odyssey. 2. Alexander the Great. 3. Ernesto P. Santiago. 4. Decimus Magnus Ausonius. 5. Mahatma Gandhi. 6. Kobayashi Issa. 7. Marcus Aurelius Antoninus. 8. Jesus Christ 9. Mawlana Jalal-al-Din Rumi. 10. Publius Vergilius Maro. 11. Rudyard Kipling. 12. Langston Hughes. 13. Ernesto P. Santiago. 14. Allen Ginsberg. 15. Mahmoud Darwish. 16. Gat Jose P. Rizal. 17. Mary Elizabeth Frye. 18. Gerard Nolst Trenité.19. Lord Byron. 20. Virgil’s Aeneid. 21. Gwendolyn Brooks. 22. Emily Dickinson. 23. Maya Angelou. 24. Ernesto P. Santiago. 25. E.E. Cummings. 26. Rabindranath Tagore. 27. Walt Whitman. 28. W.H. Auden. 29. Ernesto P. Santiago. 30. William Shakespeare.
The golden wings
Of thought
Cross
being
Like roses
Of thorns
In the morning
(Original:
Le ali dorate
Del pensiero
Attraversano
L’ essere
Come rose
Di spine
Al mattino)
~ Mauritius de Shardan
These past few days, winter felt
like a farewell letter,
like a parting embrace,
like a final “farewell” kiss
pressed upon the newly blossomed hyacinths.
A letter written in green ink –
the green of leaves just barely opened,
beguiled by the deceptive April sun.
The sky — a blank sheet against which
wild geese
stretched their wings;
a page stained by clouds, hesitant
about which color they should wear.
These days, winter took its leave,
a “goodbye” that felt almost like an “adieu,”
a regret such as I have rarely felt —
perhaps kin only to my own regrets,
almost resigned, almost leafing into a man.
This winter passed so heavily
that it felt like a certainty,
so familiar and so sad
that one would have said humanity was tailored to its measure.
These past few days, winter abandoned me,
leaving behind only a letter
written with the last flakes of celestial dignity,
a letter at the end of which it told me:
“I have left; do not look for me.”
~ Gheorghiţă Bînă
On certain evenings, I allow myself to have been
too hurried to catch the scent of apple blossoms
newly blooming on the alleys of life.
I allow myself to have been so late to this feast called life,
from which some apparently bite great chunks,
and from whose crumbs I felt I had always fed.
I allow myself to have been too afraid,
too timid, or too doubtful,
admiring life like a beautiful woman passing before me,
before my gaze, petrified by such grace—
a presence of life such as one only sees in the eyes of newborns.
On certain evenings, I allow myself to no longer be.
I settle into non-being for the span of a few emotions
and simply admire the piercing colors of the sunset,
so that the shadow may so discreetly cover my past,
and suddenly, that whole blood-stained battlefield is no longer red.
On certain evenings, I allow myself to have been something or someone else,
but only because I tried to resurrect an imaginary body that was not mine,
on that same battlefield, darkened now,
where I desperately try to awaken my corpse, which was living until just recently.
The eternal return to the initial form of life,
impassive to our stubborn refusal to die.
On certain evenings,
I allow myself not to have been.
~ Gheorghiţă Bînă
Spyridon Kakos
Abstract: Psychology poetry can transform a person and help us see what we already feel. Through verse, we can explore the Self. Art allows us to express deep feelings that remain unspoken, especially the ones related to the abysmal foundation of our being. There is science backing all this, but the best argument to use poems comes always from within.
Tags: psychology, psychology poetry, poetry, poems, Intimum, Intimum Thoughts
Originally published at Intimum: Psychology Poetry
How can someone know thyself?
Why most of us fail in that?
In a world full of knowledge, we have lost connection to who we are.
We tend to analyze everything and develop theories
About psychology, about the Self
And yet we fail to truly understand our inner depth.
In this world full of people.
What makes me unique?
What makes me love you?
(How can I hate me?)
Science eventually caught up with what we knew with our heart.
Psychology has for a long time been friends with poetry. Poetry therapy is a well-known area where the scientific research about the self and artistic expression meets.
Write down on paper something that you feel, and the stress will be relieved. As Pennebaker noticed in 2016, the simple act of expressing your feelings with ink acts as a pressure valve for the soul. (Pennebaker & Smyth, 2016), in what we know to-day as Expressive Writing. The very act of creating art releases the tension we feel inside (Mazza, 2012).
According to other scientists, poetry (and art in general) helps you re-frame your issues and see things from a different perspective – thus allowing you a type of catharsis that is impossible if you keep on sticking to your current viewpoint (Schlegel et al., 2009).
Creative expression (including poetry) serves as a tool for meaning-making in a world where we constantly feel alone and in pain. The symbolism and metaphors used in poetry are especially beneficial towards that end.
Do not trust the references cited. Do not trust me.
Trust your own senses.
Try it out and check if writing a poem helps you Be.
Get a piece of paper. Write a short poem.
Reveal your most Intimum Thoughts.
Then set the paper on fire and let it burn.
Look at the ashes travel in the air.
The cosmos has listened. And you have reached the unspoken depths you once feared.
That is the power of poetry.
Logos in Silence.
Unspoken feelings.
Words unuttered.
When speaking the unspoken through metaphor, you frame the chaos and try to bring order (Reiter, 1994). Poetry gives you the ability for self-reflection (Zeman et al., 2013) as a trusted companion that follows you through a difficult path. It lets you open up. To speak what you feel without fearing that explanation is needed to someone else. When writing poetry you can truly be yourself.
You.
Me.
The world.
Read.
Write.
Cry.
Fear not.
Fortunately, all things have an end [1]…
(You will smile again!)
~ Powered by Intimum ~
Continue the search for the unspoken at intimum.eu where the Self finds its voice.
Mazza, N. (2012). Poetry Therapy: Theory and Practice. Routledge.
Pennebaker, J. W., & Smyth, J. M. (2016). Opening Up by Writing It Down: How Expressive Writing Improves Health and Eases Emotional Pain. Guilford Publications.
Reiter, G. I. (1994). “Writing poetry: A project for the chronically mentally ill.” The Arts in Psychotherapy.
Schlegel, R. J., et al. (2009). “Crativity and the search for meaning.” Journal of Research in Personality.
Zeman, A., et al. (2013). “The emotional power of poetry: Neural circuitry, psychological and aesthetic experience.” Journal of Consciousness Studies.
[1] Chrysa Zachari, personal communication, 12/2025.
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